Asan.
Nay, nay, my sweet;
'Twere best we went at once.
Gycia.
My lord, I honour
The love thou bearest him, but go I cannot,
Until the feast is done. 'Twould cast discredit
On every daughter's love for her dead sire,
If I should leave this solemn festival
With all to do, and let the envious crowd